


We Don't Bleed When We Don't Fight

by cosipotente



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosipotente/pseuds/cosipotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Stiles that Derek stumbles to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Bleed When We Don't Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein certain things from "Motel California" happened very differently.

Stiles sits in the driver's seat of his jeep, holding back a full on meltdown. His legs hangout from the open door and his shaking hands rest on top of his bent knees. He takes deep breaths in through his nose and lets them out slowly through his mouth. It makes him feel light headed, but he keeps doing it anyway; part of him hopes he passes out and hits his head on the ground so hard he gets selective amnesia.

Stiles would give almost anything to have the last few hours bleached from his memory. He screws his eyes shut in a bid to keep the images at bay, but it doesn't help. All he sees is the way Scott's shredded torso looked as Allison slid a needle through his skin to keep it together so Scott's healing process would jump start. The images make Stiles feel queasy and he groans miserably.

When Stiles manages to open his eyes, a bloody Derek Hale stumbles into the side of his jeep. It really fucking figures the world would kick Stiles while he was down, but he's too busy trying to avoid knocking his head into the door frame when he nearly jumps out of his skin to rile against the universe.

When the fright wears off, Stiles gets angry; there's a verbal barrage with Derek's name on it sitting on his tongue like fire. He completely deserves it, too. Who the hell did Derek think he was, nearly getting himself killed, letting everyone think he had, in fact, been killed, and then just showing up suddenly out of nowhere? Stiles isn't going to let this slide, especially after what Scott's been dealing with. What Stiles has been dealing with; a sliver of fear that Derek had been truly dead had settled beneath his skin like a shard of glass. 

Fuck you very much, Derek.

"Stiles."

That's all it takes, Derek half-hissing his name, for the all the anger to burn to ash. Stiles catches Derek before he collapses to the pavement.

"Jesus Christ." Stiles huffs, knees almost buckling under the weight of the older man's body. "Derek? Derek, buddy, wake up." 

Derek grumbles something about home and then he's out again. Stiles does his best to carefully get Derek into the passenger seat without injuring him further. A trail of blood smears across the leather, but Stiles concentrates on getting Derek buckled in rather than making some smarmy remark about a cleaning bill.

He gets Derek propped up in the seat and Stiles finally takes a moment to really assess the damage. Almost instantly, he regrets his decision. Derek has deep gashes across his chest, his shoulders, and undoubtedly crisscrossing his back. The worst of his injuries are concentrated on his stomach—like Ennis had been trying to rip Derek in half.

Stiles tears his eyes away from the bloody mess, fighting back the bile and dizziness to press a soft kiss between Derek's eyebrows.

"Don't die, you idiot." He whispers before shutting the door. He runs to the other side of the jeep and jumps into the driver's seat. 

He does his best to drive both safely and quickly; Stiles speeds when he can get it away with it while he takes turns as slowly as possible. Not that it helps much, Derek groans at the slightest jar. Stiles debates calling Scott, but decides against it. He doesn't want to run the risk of taking his eyes off the road—although he does, several times, to glance at Derek's graying face, and to watch the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

He's alive, Stiles thinks, though in his head, it sounds more like a prayer.

When Scott had told Stiles Derek was dead, he didn't believe it. He couldn't, and wouldn't, believe it. There was just no way the world could be that cruel. But it had taken his mother from him, so as naive as he wanted to be, Stiles knew first hand the exact cruelty the world had. 

But he didn't stop believing in Derek.

"If you weren't so hurt," Stiles grumbles in Derek's general direction, "I'd drop you few times while I was helping you."

He ends up doing it anyway, although completely by accident. And it only happens once. They are coming out of the lift into Derek's loft and his foot ends up catching Stiles' as he's trying to maneuver Derek into a more steady position.

Stiles lands hard on his side, breathing whooshing out of his lungs for a really painful second. His arm and ribs smart from the landing, but he grits his teeth and pushes himself onto his back in the split second it takes for the momentum to carry Derek down as well. The older man lands on top of him with an agonized groan. Stiles had braced himself for the heavy impact, but Derek, even injured as he was, still thought to protect Stiles at the last second by throwing out an arm to take the brunt of his weight.

"You suck—" Derek wheezes into the crook of Stiles' neck, but he passes out before he can finish the half-assed scold.

"Who sucks?" Stiles quips back, struggling to get out from under Derek. Passed out the way he is, Derek's weight seems to shift from pounds to tons. Stiles manages to slide out after much maneuvering and he rolls Derek onto his back.

The wounds on his stomach ooze thick, black blood.

"Derek?" Stiles whispers. He gets no response and his heart almost stutters in his chest.

"Derek?" He's louder now, voice thick with panic and urgency. Stiles draws his fist back and punches Derek in the face, hard and sharp.

He continues to lay motionless.

Shitshitshitshit.

Stiles lays his head on Derek's chest, above his heart, and strains to listen. For a moment, all he hears is his own heart beating rapidly, but once Stiles calms himself down, he hears it. Derek's heart thumps steadily beneath Stiles' ear.

"I hate you so much." Stiles groans, although his words fall on deaf ears.

He gets Derek on the bed, a miracle in and of itself, before he works on getting Derek's boots off. They are covered in filth, and it takes Stiles a few minutes to get them untied, but he does eventually. He peels off Derek's blood-caked socks with a wrinkle of his nose, trying in vain to telepathically communicate how gross this is to the passed out werewolf. Derek doesn't stir an inch, the bastard.

Stiles puts the boots where Derek likes them left—tucked upright under the bed, before he a takes a moment to stare down at Derek. The gashes on his stomach and chest are healing slowly, inch by inch, leaving only dried blood behind. Stiles takes that as a good sign and leaves him to sleep it off, heading towards the bathroom.

He hadn't bothered turning on any lights in the loft; a few weeks of tiptoeing around it in the dark has left Stiles with a near perfect layout of the place. Not that he has much to worry about, Derek's Spartan interior decorating leaves much to be desired—something Stiles and Isaac like to needle Derek about.

Thinking about it brings a smile to Stiles' face, but when he flips the bathroom light switch on, it slides off like an avalanche.

He is covered in Derek's blood. It's smeared down the left side of his face from where he had pressed it to Derek's chest. There is blood on his arms, across his shirt in big splotches, and his pants are even spattered with it. He looks like a wild thing.

Stiles grabs the edge of the sink, woozy. He turns the taps on with shaking hands before dipping his head down and furiously scrubbing at his face. He does the same with his arms. Stiles decides to shuck of his clothes and shoes, finding that the blood had seeped through them and onto his skin. He turns the taps off in the sink and gets in the shower for a quick rinse off.

When the water stops running pink, Stiles steps out, grabbing a towel from the rack on the wall. It smells strongly of Derek, even to his dull human senses. With no one around to call him out on his creepiness, Stiles spends a full minute holding the towel against his face and inhaling the smell of it.

"You are so weird sometimes, it's almost embarrassing to be around you."

Stiles gives himself a mental high-five when he manages to not jump at Derek’s voice, gruff and sarcastic from the bathroom doorway.

Stiles balls the towel up and throws it at Derek, aiming for his face. But Derek catches it before it hits him, staring dully at Stiles.

"Whatever." Stiles grumbles. He looks at Derek with a serious expression. "Stupid question, but do you need anything?"

Derek shakes his head, stepping fully into the bathroom and shutting the door. "Just some time. And a shower."

Stiles turns the water back on, adjusting it to the near scalding temperature Derek seems to enjoy so much. He moves to step away from the tub, but Derek, now naked, manages to crowd him into the shower with him.

Derek puts his back to the spray, holding Stiles against his chest in a loose, one armed hug. Stiles watches the water wash away the dirt and dried blood from Derek's skin; he watches the way Derek's skin closes around wounds, making him whole again.

Stiles can't even begin to count how many times he has watched Derek's body rebuild itself, but it never fails to amaze him. 

"I thought I was dead." Derek says in a reverent sort of way, like he's awed at being alive. "I felt dead."

He pulls Stiles closer against him, winding his other arm around Stiles' shoulder. He rests his lips against Stiles' temple. "But then I felt you, and I was awake again."

Stiles swallows past the lump in throat, but he can't find any words to speak aloud. So he presses them into Derek's mouth, slides them along his tongue, and when Derek cants his head the slightest bit, pressing into the kiss, Stiles knows Derek hears what he is trying to say.

 

 

It's a few hours later that Stiles lets Scott know Derek is alive. He texts him a few of the details before attaching a picture of Derek sleeping, open mouthed, and sending it. He crawls back into bed, tucking himself against Derek's back. The older man snorts lightly in Stiles' direction.

"You better enjoy your sleep while you can." Stiles whispers, trying to hold back a laugh. 

It won't be long before Scott and Isaac, and the others, come bursting into the loft like a teenage, werewolf tornado. So Stiles nuzzles against Derek's shoulder, and waits.


End file.
